


A Moment of Silence

by kittensandcake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but mainly fluff, lil bit of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensandcake/pseuds/kittensandcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years, and John still isn't over Sherlock's death. However, he has found a slightly better way to cope with his grief, even if it isn't...conventional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment of Silence

The hallucinations had started about a year after the man had died. Occasionally, it would just be the flick of a dark wool coat in the corner of John's eye, or the odd glimpse of a mop of curls, bouncing out of sight. Then, as time went on, the hallucinations started to become more...human. Sherlock would sit, just on the corner of John's vision, and observe. 

Then, a few months later, he began comment on things. 

He chastised John for each and every breakdown, suggested what cereal he should buy at the supermarket, and warned him about getting rid of his experiments. Sometimes, John would respond and glare at him. But only when he was on his own. He'd gone to Scotland Yard to pick up a few things of Sherlock's that he had left there over the years, and told him to stop moaning. Regardless to say, a few of the detectives and police had given him strange looks. But John had merely continued on, and gone straight back home.

Everything was quiet in 221B. It used to be filled with noise, the tenants arguing playfully or one of them blowing something up for an 'experiment', which would cause the other to shout at him and eventually another argument would arise, until both parties were either breathless or one had retreated to their respective room to sulk. Now all the science equipment was all packed up and sitting in large cardboard boxes on the kitchen floor. The larger room had also been cleared out, with dust forming on the windowsill and the various experiments in different stages of decay. Some had been thrown away within the first week, due to the overpowering stench of formaldehyde and other chemicals in the flat, but a few of the less aromatic experiments had been allowed to stay. 

The whole apartment seemed to be made up of varying shades of dull grey, the only light being from the large windows which had been covered with heavy curtains, and the unnatural, draining glow from a laptop, which was on more than often. Even the bright yellow paint of a tatty smiley face that had been haphazardly sprayed onto the wall had seemed to fade, becoming more and more like a nicotine stain than anything else. There were plenty of those, where the current tenant had succumbed. He'd found the other's various stashes over his time alone in the flat, and this had only lead to a few nights of heavy smoking, and a couple of weeks of nicotine poisoning.  
The silence in the darkened flat was broken by the gentle tap-tap of someone's fingers on a keyboard. John was exhausted - a result of being so utterly empty all of the time - as he typed on his laptop, still only using two fingers. This limited him somewhat when he typed, but it wasn't like he was in a hurry to go anywhere. He never was any more, and it was almost sickening for the ex-army doctor, who was so used to action and trauma. He once said it himself; if he is knee-deep in the action, with blood and pressure on him, he performed beautifully. Have him treat the flu and put him in an office with a bunch of tired, local doctors, and he was useless. Sherlock had also said that to him, a few times. Now, the man was nowhere in sight, and John wished he could summon him himself, instead of leaving it to his subconscious.  
John had left his blog alone for a long time because of...his mind pushed the thought away and he shook his head to get rid of it completely, not wanting the dull, aching pain to return. It plagued him, appearing at the most random moments. John had broken down sobbing in Tesco's for God's sake, after seeing a man with dark, curly hair. Little to say that he had ended up at his psychiatrist for a few more weeks, and had even been given a couple of bottles of mood regulators. John, being the stubborn bastard that he was, had never even bothered with them. Now those bottles languished in their medicine cupboard prison, their seals still unbroken, and staying unbroken. John had no intention of using them any time soon. 

He saw enough of the incident when he was asleep, when the nightmares came out to play. John took a pause from writing to rub his temples, to try and soothe his throbbing head. Stupid computer, he thought. Always gave him stupid headaches if he worked for too long, which was often now. The pounding behind his eyes didn't fade so he reached for his mug to sip his tea. It was stone cold. John rolled his eyes and muttered "Of course," He'd gotten into the habit of letting his tea go cold, something that would have scandalised him a couple of years ago. He'd long given up with caring about such mundane things, but in the end, now that the one, truly surreal factor in his life was six feet under, there was every reason for him to care about such things. Suddenly, there was a pad of feet, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You always forget. It's not like you. You should have drank it when it was hot,"

"Well I'm sorry, but I was busy," John replied, taking the mug over to the kitchen and pouring the cold tea into the sink, before rinsing the mug and turning the kettle on again.  
"You were never too busy for tea," Sherlock huffed, stepping over and leaning on the wall so he could look at John. "You need to take a break," 

"I'm on a permanent break. Mainly because I saw you in the clinic and burst into tears. Sarah sacked me, but she called it taking a long, unpaid holiday. I'm just glad your brother is incorrigible, and refuses to let me go bankrupt, or whatever," 

Sherlock huffed as he rolled his eyes again. "Please. He'd a prick, and you know it. He's just doing this for some other reason,"  
"Like what?"

"I don't know. Mainly because you don't. And you should know that I'm a figment of your imagination," That made John blink, and he gritted his teeth as he turned to glare at the kettle. 

"Don't...don't just say that to me. I can't be dealing with it, not...not now, Sherlock," He breathed, rubbing a hand through his hair. 

"As you wish," Sherlock disappeared, as if he had never even been there before, and John let out a sigh. Brilliant. He'd scared the vision off, instead of staying with him and just...talking or a bit. He returned his full attention to the kettle, falling into a tired stupor as he watched it.

John perked up when his laptop beeped. A message? No-one contacted him anymore, unless it was Lestrade trying to convince him to come back and try being the detective he had been. He knew he wasn't the detective though. He had been the detective. John had just been the assistant, the ex-military doctor, tagging along with no real input to the case apart from keeping him alive, and sometimes proving the man with a means of focusing his own brilliance, if he was lucky. Something that he had now failed to do. John opened the email then scanned through it. His therapist, wanting to meet him after his months of solitude. For some time John just considered it. Maybe it was what he needed. If he could come to terms with...with it, the nightmares could stop. Maybe. Even after so long with the therapist he hadn't fully learned how to cope with his PTSD, only...he had helped John with that. 

John had already lost weight, quickly too, he could see it in the mirror every morning. Sunken eyes with no hope left in them, his face looking more skull-like with each passing day, the greying stubble on his chin making him look sicker and sicker as time went on. People crossed the street now to avoid bumping into him, and he couldn't really blame them. If he saw a man with a dead-looking face, a limp and an unkempt birds nest for hair, muttering to himself as he stared at the pavement, he would have crossed the road as well. John made his decision, typed his response and reached for his cane. May as well try.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hello John," The therapist stood to shake his hand carefully, then motioned for him to take a seat in the armchair she had kept, all this time. It seemed like it had changed, gotten older, more frayed, over the two years that he had spent trying to stay away from this place, and his heart sank. He remembered those stories from people who had also lost someone, how they felt like the world had stopped turning. John realised how much bullshit that really was. The world didn't stop turning. It continued, ruthlessly, and didn't care if the most brilliant man in London, in England, even in the whole world, had died. John had refused to call it suicide. And he was still refusing now, clinging onto his belief like a dog with a bone. 

"It's been a long time since I last saw you. How have you been doing?" Her voice was full of concern, something John had been hearing constantly. Everyone acted like he was made of glass, that one push, one harsh word would make him shatter into a thousand pieces, and he wouldn't be able to pick himself up. As if he hadn't done it a million times before.

"Fine," He lied.

"I see," She nodded then scratched something down on her notebook. John had to resist the urge to read it.

"Home life been okay? No new girlfriends, boyfriends, anything like that?" She smiled warmly at him, and John felt his stomach twist. 

"I, uh...no. Nothing like that. I...I'm still, um...too...I just don't feel like that right now," He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant about the whole thing. She obviously didn't think that was the case, as she quickly jotted something down. 

"Notice how she's sitting?" Sherlock asked in a soft voice, from his place just a little way away. "Knee raised up, body reclined. So you don't read her notes. Honestly, John, I thought even you would have noticed that," While she was writing, John shot Sherlock a stern look, which the woman just about missed. He smiled back at her, before she spoke again. 

"I guess we can't beat around the bush for too long. How are you feeling, John? About...your friend's death?" Immediately John's face creased into a frown and his whole body tensed.

For a few long moments, John was silent, his eyes focused on the carpet under the woman's chair, just following the pattern of the woven fibres and trying not to think too much.  
"I'm fine," 

She looked at him, a mixed look of sadness and concern written clearly across her features, before it was gone and replaced with a look of professional calm. Sherlock was perched on the table just behind her, and let out a derisive sound at the look on her face. 

"She's writing things about you, and trying to manipulate you. It's not fair really, that you do this to yourself, John," He drawled, sliding from the desk and walking over to sit next to the woman's armchair, glancing at her before looking at John.

"You're fine. At least...you will be. But you don't need this," John chose to ignore Sherlock, and tried to focus on the therapist. She was fairly pretty, the woman, and John wondered what she'd look like if she smiled now and then. He rarely smiled, any more.

"John. I need the truth, otherwise I can't help you," There was silence, John debating what to do. She could clearly see how broken he looked, just like most of the population of London did, on a fairly regular basis. Sometimes, it was too much for John to stay in the flat, and he would wander for hours, not really caring where he went. He'd been mugged twice, but once the muggers had realised that he had nothing of value on him, they would merely walk off. One of them punched him, but ran off the moment he had started towards them, fire glinting in his eyes. That had been the one time that he had truly felt alive in years, but once the initial adrenaline had faded John realised how stupid he had been. He didn't walk at night, after that. 

"Not good,"

She nodded sympathetically. "Would you care to tell me about it?"

"I..." John was about to deny his claim, say he wasn't ready, could never be ready to just get out of it. But he didn't. "I can't get over him. I don't even try. I can't bear thinking about him, I just..." His throat was uncomfortably hot, a huge lump forming in it so he took a moment to swallow and collect himself. 

"I want him back," John finished pathetically. The Sherlock in the corner cocked his head to the side, wetting his lips and glancing down at the floor. John could practically feel the guilt radiating off of him, and the urge to go over and say he was sorry, that he was good, that John was just having a bad moment, felt like his whole gravitational pull had shifted to the vision just a few metres away. But John remained seated, and instead lowered his gaze to stare blindly at the carpet again, only looking up when he was sure that he wouldn't start crying. 

"I can understand that," She raised her eyebrows and smiled gently, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was a smile intent on calming, on reassuring, and for once John found it working on him. But then his eyes dipped down again to the carpet, and he brought his hands into his lap, fiddling with them and worrying at his lower lip. 

Sherlock huffed and walked over. "She's just upsetting you, John. Why don't you leave? Just go back to the flat, I'll be waiting there, honestly..." John gritted his teeth, glaring up at the vision for just a brief second before the therapist spoke again. 

John blinked, and looked across at her. "Sorry, I...I was distracted. What did you say?"

"I said, that maybe the course to take here John, is to do something else. Move yourself on instead of waiting for...well...something to happen by chance,"  
John stared at her, cocking his head to the side in utter confusion. 

"What...what do you mean?" He asked, incredulously. What had happened to taking it slowly? From easing out of all of this? What had happened, to...to his time?

"You are still living at-" Her eyes darted to his file then back to him "-221B, Baker Street? The flat you shared with Sherlock Holmes?" John nodded blankly. The file had gotten bigger, and John wondered how many different therapists and doctors she was planning on referring him to, if this didn't work out. How many would give him more drugs to throw away or store? How many would try different types of therapy, only to leave him feeling more tired than before? Sherlock glanced at the file, and stiffened, but John paid him no heed. 

"Well, why don't you put out an advert for a roommate? Ask a friend if they want to share with you? Having someone else living in the flat might change the way you look at it, and the way that it effects your life,"

He was brought back into the harsh reality of it all by the therapist's voice, and John shook his head. "No. I, I can't do that. I can't..." Hot tears covered his vision in a blurry film so he was forced to rub them, feeling stupid. Why the hell could he always cry here, as if on cue? At the flat, he would only cry when there was nothing else to do, when all else had failed to get rid of the grief that racked his body. Otherwise, it was the numb feeling that crept into his bones, and rendered him absolutely useless, as if his whole body had turned into lead, to match the grayscale theme of his world, the flat being the centre of it all. 

"Why don't you think about it?" She tilted her head, the sympathetic smile returning to her features. "John, it's been three years. You have to move on,"  
"I-I...I ca-"

"Just consider it, John. Please? You don't have to do anything, not just yet. But just...give it some thought," The woman smiled gently at him, just as she checked her watch. "I'm afraid our session is up. Would you like me to call a cab for you?" John's instant response was to shake his head, grabbing his cane in one hand and forcing himself to stand before a weak, automated smile crossed his lips. 

"I...no thanks. I...um...I'm going out, to meet an old army mate. Just around the corner from here," It was a lie, but John knew that he had put enough nervous enthusiasm into it that he could fool the woman. He rubbed the back of his neck, and made his smile grow more bashful. "I just...I guessed that I should see a few people. Just to see how they're getting on. Try to...reconnect, I guess," 

The woman smiled, as if on cue, and reached over to place a hand on John's shoulder. "That's brilliant, John. Absolutely fantastic. I can't wait to hear about how it was when you get back here," She squeezed his shoulder, before letting go and leaning back respectfully so that he could leave the room. 

John's smile faded the moment he was outside, and he sighed. He shouldn't have had to lie to her, but it was irritating enough to feel that he needed her to stay sane. Just crying and shouting to himself wasn't helping, if anything it was making him worse, and going to the woman did help. Sometimes. John just stayed still on the pavement for a little while before he was moving off, slowly hobbling down the street in search of either a park to aimlessly wander through, or somewhere that offered liquor. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the end, it was a pub that John walked into, with Sherlock walking beside him. "I don't know why you do this to yourself, John," He murmured softly, so only the army doctor could hear him. "It doesn't help. At least, not in the long run. You were always telling me that, weren't you? That all my smoking and drug taking would be the death of me? Well, this is just a slower descent," 

"Shut up," The words are coarse and low, trying to make his own brain go quiet as John settled himself at the corner of the bar, nodding up at the bartender. "Whiskey. I don't care what type, just...uh...make it strong," John murmured, hunching over the bar and wondering if he could be any more of a cliché than he already was. He was drinking whiskey, in his civvies, with his dog tags around his neck as he mused over days past. If that wasn't the grizzled-soldier-after-war-drinking-and-reminiscing archetype, John didn't know what would be. Expect he wasn't really a soldier any more. As that bastard Moriarty had once called him; the broken toy soldier. That had been so long ago, and John caved in, rubbing a hand through his hair, knowing that it was probably more true now than it had ever been. He had been sure to check that Jim had been dead. He had, and he was sure that Sherlock had actually beaten him. But he hadn't been able to look at the bag that contained Sherlock's body. That had been too much. 

John returned his attentions to the crystal glass in front of him, swigging the whiskey and humming softly as the liquid burned down his throat, warming his insides and making the emptiness inside his chest fade a little. "You look like you're drinking holy water," Sherlock sneered derisively from the corner, and John simply sipped again. "It makes me feel better," He mumbled, just as the bartender looked at him. 

"Does it? Christ, if you want something to make you feel better, I'd go with scotch. Smoother than whiskey, but stronger too. Want a glass? It's more expensive, but hell, we're almost about to close up. You can have it for half off, if you want?" The bartender smiled at him, and John stared blankly. 

"You're closing? So soon? What's the time?" John fumbled for his watch, before he remembered that he had left it at the flat. Shit. He'd done it so that he wouldn't be mugged, but now he had no idea what the time was. 

"About ten, mate. You wandered in here only an hour ago, didn't you see it get dark?" The man cocked his head to the side, wondering how old the man in front of him really was. John looked around in surprise, only to raise his eyebrows and turn back to his drink. 

"You're a moron," Sherlock huffed as he checked his nails, John downing his drink and placing a few notes on the bar. "I-I...daydreaming, I guess," John shrugged, chuckling faintly. "Thanks, but I'll...I'll skip the scotch, if that's alright with you," The bartender shrugged, rubbing a hand over his shiny bald head as he watched John. 

"Say, are you alright sir? Don't need some help home?" 

"I'm fine. Thank you," Was John's sharp reply as he grabbed his cane, Sherlock chuckling behind him as he stumbled out. "He thought you were older. Dear me, John, you could have at least tried to smarten yourself up before you wandered out here. You're making both of us look bad," He slid his hands into his pockets as John rounded on him, eyes blazing. 

"You're not even here!" He shouted, and froze. John looked around him, to see several people looking at him with concerned expressions, and a mother trying to herd her two children away. John felt his cheeks heat in shame, before he rubbed a hand over his face and looked up. There was a gangly youth in Sherlock's place, who cocked his head to the side. 

"You alright, sir?" He asked, his voice high and nasal, nothing like Sherlock's deep, baritone hum. 

John took a few steps back, and nodded. "I-I...yeah, I'm..." He looked around him again, and his chest tensed up. "I just...I need...I need to get home," With that, John took off, hobbling away and shuddering as he did so. Why the fuck had he done that?! Why had he shouted at the kid? 

"Because he looked like me," Sherlock was by his side again, easily striding to keep up with him, and John shook his head. "No. You...you're not him. Go away. Leave...leave me alone. Just go,"

"I would, but you don't really want me to,"

"I do. Sherlock, please, just...I need you to go. Please, leave my head, I can't..." John took only a moment to slid into an alley, where he stared at the apparition, his whole face contorted with pain. "Sherlock, I...I'm begging you. Please, just..." John could feel the tears rising up again, and he choked back a sob. "I can't live with you here. You're not here! You...you can't be here, you are driving me insane, I need to...I need to live without you, please, just...let me go," He begged, looking up at the man. As a last ditch resort, John reached forwards. His hand passed right through Sherlock, and his whole face crumpled in a single, broken heartbeat. 

"I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock breathed, before he faded from sight and John was left alone, in the middle of a dark alley way, with no idea what he was going to do next. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, John had recovered. By recovered, he meant that he wasn't screaming at nothingness and telling Sherlock to get the fuck back into his mind, for him to come back, please, please come back, I didn't mean it, I need you Sherlock, please just come back...

He'd calmed down a lot since then.

Back in the apartment, after a round of tea and toast that he just managed to get down, John reread what he had written. An advert, for the window of the corner-shop just down the road. It seemed like the best place to do it, really, seeing as John didn't want a delinquent or some other unsavoury character to see his ad and come ask about a place. Mrs Hudson had agreed to keep the rate the same, for him and whoever decided to come and live with him, and had even asked if he'd want her to act as a housekeeper, of sorts, providing tea when it was asked for, cleaning now and then...but John had refused. The woman was getting older, and it wasn't fair to make her work like that, especially seeing as he was more than capable when he put his mind to it. 

It felt so final though. Like he was giving up on Sherlock, him accepting that he had died. 

But he did you moron, he thought. What did you expect? He leapt of a building, all because he couldn't deal with being called a fraud. His stupid, pride-filled ego couldn't take it, and Sherlock thought the only way around it was to jump.

John put his head in his hands. "Stop it," His voice was quiet, wavering dangerously as his throat began to thicken. He could feel the awful, gut-wrenching, empty pain return to his chest, and John's body began to shake.

"Stop thinking that, you bloody idiot. You..you're only going to make it worse. Get that into your thick head you stupid, stupid moron!" John shouted to himself. "There was no way he could have survived, you're living in your own, fucking, stupid, dream. Stop it!" 

In a blur he stood and threw his fist at the wall, the resounding thud vibrating up his arm and making his teeth rattle. Pain spiked along his arm - only milliseconds after the noise - making him howl then slide to the floor, tears streaming freely down his face as John pressed his hands to his face, sobbing and wanting the numbness to return, anything to stop him from feeling so utterly wretched. This time, there was no vision sitting in the corner, no Sherlock he could look too and feel comforted by. John pressed a hand to his mouth. Sherlock was gone. He...he was truly gone from his mind. And it seemed that John hadn't actually recovered at all.

"He's dead," He repeated over and over to himself, in a soft, weak voice that only he could hear. "He's never coming back," John wept for a long time, ignoring everything but the sensation of his chest tearing itself apart until he eventually went quiet. All the crying, the pain in his arm, and the agony of his chest was enough to make his eyelids droop, and in seconds he was fast asleep, exhausted from his tirade.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He slept on the floor that night. John had been exhausted after his breakdown, and the floor was practically like feather bed to him, even if he did have a pile of books digging into his hip, and his whole body felt like ice from the lack of heat during the night. He thought he would have woken up before that, but John knew that stress did strange things to people. He was a first class example of that, and practically the poster-boy for PTSD. Next time, he'd put a blanket over himself. If there ever was a next time. John hoped that there wouldn't be, but knew that the odds were against him. 

When he woke, the first things that registered were that the curtains and windows were open, and someone had placed a tray of food and drink next to him. Mrs Hudson no doubt. John sat up slowly, just taking in everything around him as he worked the cold from his limbs, rubbing his fingers before wriggling them, working the blood into them. His headache was gone, thank God. And for once...he hadn't had a single nightmare. Maybe, just maybe...maybe this is the right thing to do, John thought quietly. 

Just let him go.

John eventually pushed himself to his feet and onto his chair. At a touch his laptop was ready and willing, with the advert from last night all there. Without a second thought he clicked on print, then sipped at the tea he had been left as the printer beeped and clicked in the background, adding some simple, yet comforting noise to the silence of the flat. The tea was good, very strong and sweet with milk, and still hot. Exactly how...how Sherlock had liked it. To the side of the room the printer whirred once and the simple advert rolled out. John stood, took a firm grip on his cane, and hobbled over to get it. It looked, well...good. Simple, readable, and would fortunately be boring enough to scare away any teenagers or university students looking. He was sure that he wouldn't get along with a twenty something, especially if they insisted on having other students around. Not to mention how they might be intimidated by him, and his screaming nightmares. Maybe he'd have to find a way around that, in the future.  
"Okay then," He murmured to himself. "Let's go give you in,"

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been five days since John had watched as the advert was sealed behind a plastic cover and displayed in the shop window for the world to see. It had actually stood out, it's black and white typed text out of place amongst the pencil-scrawled ads with a bad photo stuck on clumsily with a glue stick. The neat looking advert rubbed shoulders with all kinds of promotions; old cars, washing machines, babysitting services, housemaids, puppies...John had taken a few moments to look over these, and had huffed softly at the mention of a missing cat. Sherlock would have been able to locate it's whereabouts in a few moments. If he had been with him, then John would have pestered him to do so, anything to keep that madman's mind occupated. John had half smiled to himself, before he had hobbled back to the flat and proceeded to take a very long nap. So long, that when he woke up it was morning the next day, and John had no idea where he was. 

All the same, no-one had called. Not a single person had called up, sent an email, or even just came to the door. Everyone had been strangely quiet. But, John had felt slightly happier. His monochromatic, grey world had been injected with faint colours, a watery blue sky here, some weak green on the trees budding branches, even a faint glow from the sun had warmed his back during one of his long walks. John felt more relaxed than usual and was relying less and less on his cane to walk, although he was fairly sure that he wouldn't be able to go without it. His therapist had been right for once. Letting go was easier than he had thought it would be. True, every time he saw something related to Sherlock a pang would go through him, but it was better than the wrenching grief he had felt not that long ago.

Another four days later, the doorbell rang, a sudden trilling sound. John almost dropped his tea onto the floor in surprise, then a small smile made his mouth curve upwards. Someone wanted to share with him! He put the half-empty mug onto the table so quickly a little sloshed out onto his hand which he wiped hastily on his jumper as he grabbed his cane, hissing softly. He was just glad that it hadn't been boiling; running downstairs with a scalded hand wouldn't have been the best way to meet his new flatmate. There was every chance that it was just a postman, or someone like that, but John was still inexplicably excited. Someone wanted to share his flat with him! It was stupid to be this happy, but after all he had been through John decided that he deserved a little happiness in his life. He always found stairs a problem with his leg, but he practically flew down to get to the door. "Just coming!" He called at the bottom of the stairs. He flicked the chain away, unlocked the door and swung it open.  
"Hi there..." John felt the words die in his mouth and his mouth hung open slightly.

The slender, black-haired figure at the door smiled faintly. "Hello John,"

John stared. 

And stared. 

After a few moments of staring, John blinked. He blinked again and this time rubbed his eyes, before he sagged. "You'd better come in then," John murmured weakly, waiting until the man had stepped inside before he shut the door, not allowing them to touch. The man looked utterly confused at the treatment, but complied all the same, hanging his coat up on a hook as he looked expectantly at John. That was weird. The visions never hung their coats up. Maybe the vision was feeling bad for leaving like that, for however long he did, and John had probably found the coat during one of his searches through the flat. He sighed, padding up the stairs and limping yet again. "You know, you didn't need to make a scene of it. You could have just dropped back in," John murmured to the figure, feeling so stupid to believe that even for a second that someone would want to share a flat with him. John sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair as he walked into the flat, falling into his armchair with a soft huff. "Well, go on. Tell me how much of a moron I am for putting the ad up. Or why it was stupid of me to sleep on the floor again. Just go ahead. I need some background noise after this," John thought, before he changed his mind and got up again, hobbling to the kitchen. "Actually, I need some more tea. I thought you had gone, properly this time, but I guess that, well...I couldn't block you out. You know, it's all your fault, all of this. That I've ended up this way. If it weren't for you..." John sighed, shaking his head as the kettle hummed behind him, preparing his mug as he glanced away from the vision. "No, I...I'm stupid. Sorry, forget that," If he wasn't careful, he might scare it away again, and there was no way that John wanted that. So what if he talked to him? If he got another flat mate, they'd just have to deal with his rants.

"John," The man said, his eyes wide as he looked at him, with a curious expression on his face. It was a whole range, and John was sure that his visions never had that much emotion, apart from the odd trace of sarcasm or haughtiness. 

"Yeah, sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. You...you did make my life better. I know that. I just...I wish you were here, Sherlock. I honestly do. I...I think, near the end, I..." He trailed off for a second, before huffing quietly. "May as well tell you. You're not going to blab to anyone. I think, just before everything went tits up, before Jim and all of that 'fall' shit...I think I fell in love with you," John sighed softly, pouring water into his mug and sipping slowly, feeling the warmth wash through him. "I've said it now. And I...I'm glad I did," He smiled at the vision, waiting for him to make a comment, but it just stared at him, which caused John's smile to turn a little sad. 

There was a noise of the front door opening, and Mrs Hudson's voice. "Oh, he's upstairs Inspector. I'm sure that he can see you, he seems almost chirpy today," She says to who John believes to be Greg. Greg? John half smiled, wondering if the man had seen his ad. John took his mug and walked around the vision, standing in the doorway with the man just behind him and to the left. Just as Lestrade jogged up the stairs, John smiled at him. "Didn't know you were looking for a flatshare. Or is this just a friendly visit?" John chuckled faintly, sipping his tea as he looked at the man. Greg opened his mouth to speak, with a faint smile on his lips, before all the colour drained from his face and his knees wobbled. 

"Jesus fucking Christ!" John jumped as Greg swore, looking around and then back at him. 

"What?" He asked desperately, walking over to the man. "What, what is it? Shit are you alright?" But Greg was staring, transfixed, at John's vision. John glanced over at him, and then back at Greg. 

"Greg? What's the matter?" 

The man whirled around, looking straight at John. "He's alive? When the bloody hell were you going to tell me that he was alive?!" 

"What? Greg, what are you-" 

"John," The army doctor froze in place, his eyes swivelling in his skull as he looked around. The slender man stepped forwards, to place a hand on his shoulder and lean down to look at him, his eyes shining with tears. It was only now that John realised that this vision had aged. There were faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His hair was still black, but there were streaks of ginger and blond running through it, and it all seemed shorter than before. There were scars, zig-zagging and criss-crossing his face, like some kind of macabre patchwork design. His hands...were warm. And solid. John stared in utter silence, just before his knees gave out, and he crumpled to the floor. 

"John!" Sherlock fell down with his friend, grabbing at his shirt and wrapping one arm around the his back, shaking him. "Oh, shit, John? John, are you alright?" 

"You...oh, oh my God, y-you're...G-Greg, you...you can see him," John babbled, his hands fisting in the front of Sherlock's shirt as his eyes shone, his breathing coming out as short, fast pants. "Oh my God you're real. You're...you're alive, oh, God...Sherlock, I...oh Jesus Christ," John was crying now and he threw his arms around the man's shoulders, his body shaking and shuddering with the force of his broken sobs as he repeated the words, over and over. 

"You're alive," 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

A few weeks later, and John was still...tender, in a word. Sherlock had noticed this, of course, and for once he had been especially careful with John, not experimenting, not arguing with him, acting almost exactly like the hallucination had. But Sherlock was apologetic, and almost meek, to the point where John just couldn't take it any more.  
"Sherlock," John murmured from the sofa. His voice was soft, but the flat was just as quiet as it had been when Sherlock was gone. But there were subtle reminders everywhere of Sherlock's return. The fresh paper on the desk. The coat and shoes, neatly placed by the door. The scarf over the back of John's chair. A jar of...something, on the table. Well, Sherlock had been experimenting again, but nothing too bad, no noxious fumes or fire of any kind, or even acid. They were all basic at best, and had all been a part of Sherlock's 'trying-not-to-disturb-John' plan, considering how the doctor had effectively reacted to Sherlock in the same way that he had reacted to the hallucination. Only Greg, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson knew about that, considering it had been all he had said when he was in shock. And Sherlock...he knew what John had said. About loving him. Which gave John all the more reason to talk to the man, and find out what happened with him. 

Sherlock slowly padded - barefoot, John noticed - into the living room, looking more rested than he had been in days. He was still impossibly thin, even more than he had been while living with John, or even when John went away for a little and returned to find that Sherlock hadn't eaten in several days. John had to admit, they'd both almost ruined themselves without the other. As sentimental as the thought sounded.  
"Come here," John murmured, patting the space on the sofa next to him before offering Sherlock a weak, half smile. The man complied, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed faintly. Sherlock was just as worried as John, especially after what the man had said about him. He had no idea that his 'death' would have had such a lasting effect on John, and was beyond surprised that John had even been hallucinating about him. It was bizarre to Sherlock, or at least, it would have been. Through his time away, he had realised how much he had relied on John, and not just for basic human needs. For company. For support. For just...his presence.  
Sherlock sank down onto the sofa and ran a hand through his curls, his body jittery and nervous. "What...is the matter?" He asked carefully, his eyes darting up and down John's body. He'd put on several pounds already, he had shaved again, new jumper, not one of the old ratty ones from the bottom of his chest of drawers, he'd showered, combed his hair, there were traces of crumbs on his cheek, toast most likel- no...a bacon butty from Speedy's, due to the minuscule amount of ketchup and brown sauce on the underside of his soft looking lips, and the tiny amount of tea on said jumper...

"Are you even in?" John teased gently, tapping Sherlock's forehead with a finger. The man jolted somewhat, nodding and pursing his lips a little. 

"Yes, sorry. What did you say?" 

"I said..." John paused for a few moments, twisting his hands together. "...We need to talk. About...what's happened," 

Oh. Sherlock had been dreading this, scared of just how much else he would find out about John if he listened. But John seemed...calm. At least, he was a little nervous, but that wasn't about what they were talking about. It was because...they were close. Or was it? Sherlock sighed softly. 

"Right. Do you...want to start? Or, even, where should we start?" 

"I'd ask you how you faked your death, but...I want to wait for another time. I want to know...how you feel about what I-...what I said to you. When I thought you were my...hallucination," They had skirted around the topic of John's visions for too long, and John needed to bring it to light. He needed confirmation, if anything else. That Sherlock had indeed been away, and not messing with his head. Or even, acceptance. That Sherlock didn't care he'd had the hallucinations, or that he knew, he cared, but he wasn't going to change his opinion on John. The latter sounded better by miles. 

"Oh, right...that. I...you were surprisingly honest, when you spoke to me-...or, at least, what you thought to be my image, projected by your brain to help you cope with your grief,"  
"Thanks, Sherlock. Making me feel loads better," John's reply was sarcastic, almost dripping with it, but there was a note of sincerity in it. The man hadn't tried to treat him like he was about to break. He was treating him the way he normally did, and John couldn't have felt more grateful. 

"Sorry. But...what you said. I thought you had...lost your grip on reality. Or at least, you were the most patient friend in the history of my friends. And that isn't a particularly long list, anyway, I...my point is, John..." It was Sherlock's turn to trail off, and he hummed softly as he tried to think of what to say next. "...I'm sorry. I had no idea my death would have such an...effect on you. Or that you would end up hallucinating, just to cope with everyday life. I'm sorry, for that. But...there is one thing I have to ask," His cheeks turned a little pink at this, just a rose-tinted hue coming to his face as he dipped his gaze. Sherlock couldn't quite believe that he was blushing at this, and neither could John as he looked at him. 

"What's that?" 

"Why did you say that you had fallen in love with me?"

Silence. It washed over the flat just like it used to, like it still did, but this time there wasn't any gentle, slow tapping of John's fingers on a keyboard to break it. This silence weighed down on everyone in the room, making the air thick and almost tangible. It was suffocating, and only increased the difficulty of speaking that was already being felt by its occupants. A couple of minutes later, John finally let out a soft, shuddering huff of air that sounded almost like a laugh, if it hadn't been so self-mocking. 

"I thought I had lost you forever. I was filled with regret, that I had never spoken to you about my feelings, how...how I always considered you to be my best friend, the most hu-...the most human person I had ever known. And that I...I owed you so, so much. For everything," John's voice cracked, and it was an effort for him to keep the tears back as he stared down at the floor. The carpet wasn't as interesting as the one in the therapist's office, but it did have some form of design on it, one that John followed with his eyes until he felt calm again. Sherlock, to his credit, remained silent while John collected himself, but he did reach out, his fingers tentatively brushing John's arm while he swallowed. He had heard those words before. On a day a few months after his death. It had been cold, grey, and John had looked as if he was about to collapse when he talked to his gravestone. Sherlock hadn't been too close, yet he had ordered for a microphone to be attached to the bouquet of flowers that had been placed at his fake gravestone, just so he could hear what people had to say. And John's speech...his words had cut Sherlock deep, and what had been worse was that they were words of kindness. Of respect. Almost awe. John felt no anger towards his death, or he was too wounded to even think about it. And it had been the only time that John had ever asked something of him, to just stop it, to stop the trick one more miracle..for him. After a moment or so he shifted closer to John, just as the man swallowed and let out another soft breath. 

"I didn't get to tell you any of that. And I...I thought that the hallucination had left too. So I told it...you, before either of you would disappear again. I couldn't leave it to chance any more," He ran a hand through his hair, glancing over at Sherlock with wide, pained eyes. "I...you are my b-best...best friend, Sherlock. But I never got to tell you that," 

Sherlock looked at John, his whole chest aching as he tried to think of what to do next, his brain going into overdrive, offering him examples, tips, hints, what he should say, how he should position his body, how he could offer comfort, how he could- but Sherlock shut it off, and simply leaned in, so that his lips brushed over John's. 

The next silence wasn't as heavy, as John's body was thrumming with energy, and his eyes were wide with surprise than grief. John was still at first, trying to figure out what was going on, his own mind short-circuiting at the feeling of Sherlock's soft, plump lips on his own. It was absolutely insane, he was kissing Sherlock for God's sake...but then his hands lifted up, and soon they were kissing properly. John broke away for only a moment to catch his breath before he shifted closer, almost sitting in Sherlock's lap as he pressed his body against to the man's, wishing that they weren't on the bloody sofa. Sherlock was tempted to tug him closer, position him on his body and kiss John, kiss him until there was nothing else for them to do, until John couldn't even think properly, but John stopped him, gently pressing a hand to Sherlock's chest and leaning back. 

"Not tonight," He murmured, just as Sherlock's spidery hand began to slide up his thigh. "Not now. Not after we...we've been through so much. It will happen, Sherlock, but...just not tonight," 

The man briefly pursed his lips, thinking about what John had just said to him before nodding his consent, instead wrapping his arms around the man and lifting him, so that his legs were wrapped around his skinny waist. Despite his loss of anything vaguely resembling body mass, Sherlock's arms had thickened with lean muscle, and considering how light John had become it was no real effort to carry him into Sherlock's pristine room, and set him on the bed with infinite care. It had mainly been kept clean by Mrs Hudson, who couldn't bear the idea of letting the man's bedroom go untouched, and John hadn't really had the heart in him to tell her not to. He hadn't even complained as Sherlock picked him up, and now his hands smoothed down the man's chest, plucking buttons from holes and sliding Sherlock's shirt from his body, as the man lifted John's jumper above his head. Next were the trousers, belt falling next to the shirt and the slim black trousers pooling around Sherlock's ankles. John tugged his own jeans off, not really caring where they landed before scooting back on the bed so that Sherlock could lie down next to him.  
"Red pants?" Sherlock asked with a small quirk of his lips, as John rolled his eyes and rubbed his scarred shoulder.  
"Don't laugh, all my other pants were in the wash," 

"I'm not laughing. I like them," Sherlock smiled, before he padded closer and slowly crawled onto the bed, his eyes never leaving John as he tried to position himself. All of this happened with no real communication, just Sherlock looking at John, and John looking right back, reading each other. John was the first to initiate anything this time, once they were both settled. He slid so that he was facing Sherlock, tugging his duvet up and over their bodies until they were cocooned in it, one arm on Sherlock's waist as the other tucked close to his chest, so Sherlock could copy his movements, with the exception of one skinny arm under John's neck, bent at an angle so he could smooth patterns along the man's muscled back, following the path of his spine, his shoulder-blades, tracing over the sunburst design that the bullet had left when exiting John's shoulder, all those years ago in Afghanistan. It seemed only yesterday that he had asked him the question: Afghanistan or Iraq? And even sooner, when he had been forced to leave John, after so little time together. 

"Okay?" Was the question, the voice deep and low. 

"Yeah," Was the reply, from a voice husky and barely even audible, except for the one who was close enough to hear it. Sherlock gently kissed John's forehead, smiling gently as he tucked the smaller man into his body. "I'm never going to leave again,"

"No, you're not," 

Both of them chuckled softly as John peppered kisses along Sherlock's throat, his spare hand brushing over his chest.  
"I love you," 

"I love you too," 

It didn't even matter who had said what. Both knew what it meant to say those words, and neither could be more content having saying them. Both slowly slipped away, with John smiling into Sherlock's throat, and Sherlock into John's shaggy blond hair. 

The darkened flat was silent once more, only broken by the soft sound of two people breathing, the minute sounds of one snoring, every so softly. The silence was warm, thick, like a blanket than anything else.

And silence had never been more perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the Sherlock Mini-Bang!! 
> 
> No Beta, just a writer with a surprising amount of patience who went over her work almost eighteen (yes I counted) times before she saw it fit to post. 
> 
> Here we have the link for all the gorgeous fanart that Vellium drew for this fic and the Sherlock Mini-Bang, it was wonderful working with her :D http://vellium.tumblr.com/post/71679072536 
> 
> If a lot of people request it, I might just write a little, smutty ending for this, but if not then I guess we can leave those two dorks to cuddle in their bed :)
> 
> Thank you for commenting, giving kudos, anything ^-^
> 
> (All these characters and whatnot belong to the BBC yadda yadda yadda)


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